


For All The World To See

by Moonlitdark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunk Sex, Hangover, M/M, Magical Tattoos, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28429383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlitdark/pseuds/Moonlitdark
Summary: A magical tattoo on Draco’s arse had made a suggestion and Potter was asking permission to carry it out.  And even worse, Draco was about to agree.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 137





	For All The World To See

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted a long time ago on Livejournal. So if it seems familiar, you've probably read it before.

Draco’s head hurt. Really, really hurt. In fact, today may be a good day to curl up and die. 

The shower hadn’t helped. Now, in addition to his splitting headache, the world was pulsing in and out to the beat of his roiling stomach in the midst of a swaying mass of sweaty nausea. Draco gripped the edges of the sink in an attempt to steady the swaying. He needed to lie down, but the thought of arranging the mass of rumpled bed sheets into some semblance of a comfortable sleeping area seemed too much effort, and the ten feet to the bedroom far too long a walk. Maybe he’d just lie in the middle of the bathroom floor. 

But first, he needed water. Leaning forward and twisting the tap thankfully produced moisture, so Draco cupped the precious fluid in his palm and brought it up with a shaking hand to his parched mouth. Lacking the energy to straighten his spine, Draco rested his forehead on the mirror above the sink. The instant before his eyelids drooped shut, something odd caught his attention.

Although he remembered only snippets of the previous evening, Draco had thought he recalled enough to establish that his latest unwise decision had been on his back. Probably. He was almost sure of it. But, according to the mirror, and Draco’s admittedly unfocussed vision, the inked picture was embedded into the skin above his left collarbone.

And that was not the image which Draco recalled choosing. His beautiful body was disfigured. Forever. With what looked alarmingly like pornography. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted at his reflection. Definitely pornography. On his _skin_. For all the bloody world to see. Draco’s nausea increased as he examined the depiction. It had been beautifully rendered, but the artist’s talent couldn’t mask the tackiness of the subject matter. Two figures, certainly male, were intimately embraced, one clearly deep inside the other. The man on the bottom, lying along Draco’s collarbone, was in obvious rapture; on his back, legs clenched around the waist of the lover above him. Draco noted that the figure on top had at least been well selected. Broad shoulders, toned limbs, pert arse and a mass of unruly hair which was shockingly black against the paleness of Draco’s skin.

The scene looked disturbingly familiar, but Draco couldn’t think why. A dim memory tried to surface and failed, but he didn’t possess the energy at the moment to care. So he was disfigured, at least he’d picked a hot man to scar himself with.

Allowing his eyelids to fall closed, Draco had a hideous moment of clarity. Potter’s insistence that they both go for a drink after the meeting was the cause of Draco’s current pain. Potter’s delusion that two grown men could spend an evening out together and have civilised conversation. Potter’s naiveté in believing that just because Draco was now a grown man meant that he could hold his alcohol. Potter’s drunken encouragements had not helped to prevent Draco’s lapse in judgment. In fact, Potter had been insatiably keen to encourage the disfigurement of Draco’s skin, but not to indulge in disfiguring himself. And ultimately, Potter’s inability to refuse Draco’s inebriated advances was inexcusable. _Potter_. It was all _him_. 

And Potter was also the cause of the unsightly mound of sheets which had been beside Draco before he’d risen from the bed. Potter was _under_ there, Draco just knew it. Potter was… in Draco’s bed. Right now. Polluting the linen. The way he’d polluted Draco’s body. The way Draco had _let_ him. The way that was currently depicted _on_ Draco’s body. Draco couldn’t quite work out why that was, since the tattoo incident had definitely taken place earlier in the evening than the polluting, but Draco would worry about the art after he’d dealt with the real thing. Draco couldn’t think of an expletive strong enough to describe this horrific morning.

Something moved on Draco’s collarbone. Draco squinted again at his reflection. The image was shifting; the man on top had moved off to the side, and the bottom had rolled onto its stomach. It appeared to be reaching for something. Draco wasn’t sure where the object had appeared from, but suddenly the drawn man was gesturing to whatever it held in its hand. It looked like a vial. Peering, Draco watched the tattooed man raise the vial to reddened lips and drink. Draco was entirely and unaccountably envious of the contented grin which spread across that tiny, painted mouth.

Draco was becoming suspicious of his own sanity. 

Dipping his head to stave off another bout of dizziness, Draco stared down at the sink. Something had been placed on the edge of the porcelain. A vial which hadn’t been there yesterday, Draco was sure of it. A closer glance at the contents allowed Draco to determine what it was. Hangover potion. Potter must have brought it with him. In too much pain to overanalyse his actions, Draco curled his hand around the vial and hastily drank the contents, grateful at the instant relief from his hangover.

A few minutes later, feeling miraculously better but still tired, Draco padded towards the bedroom. Time to deal with the man who was occupying Draco’s precious bed space.

As he reached the bed, Draco pondered what would be the best approach.

“Potter,” he muttered, prodding the mound where he surmised that a shoulder might be. Although, it was hard to tell. No response. Draco tried again, putting slightly more force behind it. An unintelligible grunt filtered out of the pile, but nothing further. Draco wanted him gone. Draco needed to be left alone to wallow in his regrets.

“Potter. Get _up_.”

Just as Draco was beginning to form another, more aggressive plan, a hand suddenly emerged from the pile of fabric, wrapped strong fingers around Draco’s wrist and tugged. Unprepared, Draco fell forward onto the heap, even as the fabric parted to make way for him. The sheet had settled back over him before he’d had time to properly register what had happened. But it was pretty clear what the outcome had been. Draco was now beneath the sheet, pressed alongside what appeared to be an extremely naked Potter. The most disturbing part of this abrupt event was how much Draco was enjoying the push of Potter’s erection against his sprawled thigh. Potter felt big, and Draco’s anus gave an involuntary twitch, as if in recollection.

“Morning,” grinned Potter.

That one grin was the catalyst for Draco to remember all the other tiny details of the previous evening. The sudden rush of memory, combined with the sight of rumpled Potter and the hardness of that cock was unfortunately all registering in the region of Draco’s groin.

But Potter didn’t seem to think it was unfortunate. And Potter didn’t appear to be in a patient mood, judging by the fingers which had curled around Draco’s hardening cock.

“Potter, I…” oh, fuck… why was Draco even arguing? Those fingers felt splendid, fluttering and grasping in turn along Draco’s length. But, as he arched towards the warmth of Potter’s body, Draco felt that he should be. Arguing, that is. But no… _yes_. This was very confusing. Draco couldn’t think. “Potter,” Draco groaned against Potter’s shoulder, “stop.”

The fingers stilled obediently. “You don’t like it?”

Now, that was strange. One word from Draco seemed to have evaporated the gorgeous confidence which had glowed in Potter’s eyes. What was even odder was that Draco wanted it back. But he didn’t actually want to admit that.

“It’s… okay,” Draco acquiesced, treading carefully. “But don’t you think we should talk about this?”

“I don’t see why. What’s left to talk about?”

“Apart from _this_?”

Potter frowned, and withdrew his hand. “I thought we’d cleared it up last night.” Draco didn’t remember much talking. But what he did recall was intriguing. “If you don’t want to do this, then you could just get out of the bed,” Potter suggested, his grin returning.

“It’s _my_ bed.”

“So do you want me to get out of it?”

Draco wasn’t quite as anxious for Potter’s departure as he had been previously, so he aimed to offer vague tolerance. “Well, you’re here now.”

“I don’t need to be.”

“There doesn’t seem much point in moving you.”

Potter’s grin widened. Draco could see teeth, and tongue. “Is that your own special way of saying that you want me to stay?”

“Interpret it however you want,” Draco shrugged.

“Are _you_ staying?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will too. Just to keep you company.”

“Whatever.”

“What do you want to do?”

“We could sleep.” Draco really, really hadn’t meant to say ‘we’. He prayed that Potter wouldn’t mention it.

“Yeah, that is a possibility. Or we could do something else.”

“Like what?”

“I could fuck you again.”

And Draco was suddenly lost for words. 

Potter was watching him closely. After a time, it must’ve become apparent that Draco wasn’t going to reply, but Potter made the next move anyway. Draco felt cooler air settle around his body as the sheet was peeled away.

Still with that careful gaze, Potter quietly prompted, “Lie on your front.” 

It seemed easier to remain silent and simply comply. As Draco rolled onto his stomach, Potter pushed himself up to a kneeling position and shifted out of Draco’s line of sight. But long moments later, when no further action had been taken, Draco wondered if his silence had been misconstrued as lack of enthusiasm.

The mystery of Potter’s inaction soon became apparent.

“Malfoy, something weird is happening to your tattoo.”

His inappropriate excitement in reaction to Potter’s nakedness had caused Draco to forget that oddity. Draco glanced down at his chest. The tattoo wasn’t there. Maybe Draco had imagined the strange occurrence in the bathroom and the tattoo was safely drawn on his back, where it was supposed to be. But, if that was the case, then Potter wouldn’t be commenting about it.

With a certain sense of dread, Draco enquired, “Where is it?”

“It’s… umm,” Potter murmured, but stopped mid incoherent sentence.

“Where?”

“On your… bum. Sort of.”

The feeling of dread was not going away. “Sort of?”

“Well, kind of… above it. I think it’s giving directions or something.”

Draco tried to remain calm. “What type of directions?”

“Like an arrow.”

“Oh, for fuck’s… there’s an _arrow_ on my butt?” Draco craned his neck around in horror.

“ _Above_ your butt,” Potter corrected. “Pointing down. There’s umm… lettering as well now.”

“Do I even dare to ask what it says?”

“Something about ‘fingers’… and err, ‘here’. Umm, no… you don’t really want to know.”

Draco was sure that he didn’t. “I have no idea why it’s doing that.”

“Well, maybe that’s not… so surprising.”

Potter’s hesitant tone raised Draco’s suspicion. “Potter, what did you do?”

“I, umm… I… we were _very_ drunk,” Potter murmured, confidence fading again. As an explanation, it failed on many levels. 

“Go on,” Draco urged, feigning patience.

“I… might’ve mentioned that you needed more honesty in your life.”

That still wasn’t a very explicit explanation. “And?”

“I mentioned it to the tattooist.”

“So… you’re telling me that you gave a drunken suggestion to a wizard tattoo artist, and that he actually _listened_ to your advice?” Aware of his current position, Draco was trying really hard not to shout, but wasn’t convinced that he was succeeding.

A placating hand stroked down Draco's right side. Draco would never admit how effective it was. “People tend to do that. Listen, I mean… I don’t want them to. They just do.”

“But what is it _doing_?”

“I think it’s showing your desires or something. Or helping, sort of.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Draco sighed. “Earlier, it showed me events which had already occurred.”

“Maybe it thought that you needed a nudge to make it occur again.”

Draco refused to attribute intelligence to ink work. 

“So, can I?” Potter asked from behind him.

“Can you what?”

“Put my fingers there.”

This was absurd. A magical tattoo on Draco’s arse had made a suggestion and Potter was asking permission to carry it out. And even worse, Draco was about to agree. “Fine.”

Draco curved his spine, raising his arse in what he hoped looked an appealing gesture, but after a few minutes, fingers had yet to breach his anus.

There did however, appear to be a degree of frantic fumbling and sheet-tossing going on behind him.

Draco lowered his hips back to the bed with a frustrated huff. “Potter, what’re you doing?”

“Looking for the tube of lube.”

“Wouldn’t it be on the floor or the table by the bed?” Draco prompted, attempting to speed up events.

“Nope, it was digging into my back during the night. It’s in here somewhere,” Potter declared, tossing a pillow over his shoulder. Draco rather thought that they might need that pillow in a short while.

“It’s not that big a bed to lose something in. But can’t we forget the lube and get on with it?”

“You’re in a rush all of a sudden.”

Draco’s erection, sandwiched between his stomach and the bed, didn’t consider this slovenly pace to be rushing. He needed this to be hard, quick and merciless. No teasing or foreplay, not this time… he longed to feel the power of Potter’s hips pummelling him into the mattress, to be pinned, no… cuffed to the bed, and _pounded_ , to feel the wide girth of Potter’s cock rubbing against the walls of his unprepared anus. And he ruddy well wanted Potter to hurry up and _do_ it.

At least Potter appeared to have ceased his search of the bed. “I just want you to be comforta… oh.” Draco felt the light press of fingertips trace the outline of a shape on his skin. Puffs of breath tickled the hairs at the base of Draco’s spine. “That is… a _fantastic_ idea.”

“What is?”

“You have a filthy mind, Malfoy,” chuckled Potter. “And I’m becoming very fond of this tattoo.”

The familiar feeling of dread returned with a vengeance. “What’s it doing now?”

“Being helpful. So, screw the lube,” Potter announced a second before a pair of silver handcuffs dropped onto the pillow beside Draco’s head.

A variety of alarmed and confusing thoughts whipped through Draco’s mind, but the one which made it to the surface was, “You… had those handy?”

“No, I just made them. Like them?” Potter hadn’t spoken the spell to conjure the item, and Draco could see Potter’s wand on the bedside table, untouched. Draco had been aware that this man was powerful, but wordless _and_ wandless magic? Hell, that was hot. And yes, Draco liked them very much indeed. “Give me your wrists,” Potter instructed.

Potter had grasped and cuffed both Draco’s wrists together and to the nearest bed spoke before Draco had fully comprehended what his tattoo had evidently done. This tattoo could be extremely dangerous, not to mention embarrassing, if Draco wasn’t careful. 

But the tattoo was also _amazing_. Or perhaps that was Potter, it was hard to tell during the pounding which Draco’s arse was shortly treated to. Draco suspected that it was mostly Potter, but would Potter have done this without the tattoo’s prompting? As Draco hurtled towards his orgasm, he decided that he didn’t care. 

When Potter growled out his own climax, all Draco cared about was whether he could get Potter to do it _again_. Well, that and the delicious sensation of his raw insides being soothed by Potter’s spurts. And Potter’s hands gripping Draco’s hips were satisfyingly sensuous and possessive. And Potter’s mouth, teasing the nape of Draco’s neck... that wasn’t too bad either.

Soon, as they lay sprawled together, Potter absently nibbling on the protrusion of Draco’s sweaty hipbone, Draco had the urge to reassert himself.

“I hope you realise that this doesn’t mean I like you, Potter. Just that you’re a great fuck.”

The nibbling ceased. There was only a slight stab of guilt as Potter moved away and flopped over onto his back.

“Oh, of course,” Potter agreed. “But at least I have one decent attribute to offer. Do you want to go out somewhere with me tomorrow evening before another fuck?”

“No.”

Draco glimpsed a flash of moving colour slide over his stomach. He hastily slapped his palm over the traitorous image.

“Just the sex, then?”

“I didn’t agree to even that.”

“Do you have someone better to fuck, Malfoy?”

Unfortunately, Draco didn’t. “I have a wonderfully varied selection of willing partners, Potter.” But none of them had met the standard which Potter had just set. Damn him, for ruining Draco’s perception of good sex.

The tattoo slid out from under Draco’s palm. Potter’s gaze flicked towards the movement. 

“Malfoy?”

“ _What_?” Draco snapped, mortified by the image which Potter was scrutinising. He wondered about the benefits of skin grafting. Or if the blasted thing would stay still long enough to allow Draco to slice it off his body.

“Come here.”

“No, I'm fine where I am.”

Potter’s head tilted, even as his eyes narrowed.

“Then I'll come to you,” Potter whispered, turning onto his side to face Draco.

As arms enveloped him, Draco didn’t have the energy to push Potter away. Potter’s leg curled behind Draco’s knee, gently encouraging him closer. As a tentative experiment, Draco wrapped his arm around Potter’s back, just holding, concentrating on the warmth of skin and the calming sensation of another heartbeat so near to the one thumping nervously within his chest. It was almost nice to hold and be simply held without expectation. 

And if Draco was honest, it was exactly what he wanted.


End file.
